


that one where sam breaks an idiot's face

by rei_c



Series: The Genderfluid(ity) 'Verse [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Face Punching, Gender Issues, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderbending, I Don't Even Know, I'm Bad At Tagging, Kissing, Language, M/M, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 19:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6389587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's been female for five straight days and no matter how much sex they've been having on every available surface, they're both going a little stir-crazy with no case to work for going on two weeks now and no leads to check out. </p>
<p>(aka, sam might have tits now but she's still lethal)</p>
            </blockquote>





	that one where sam breaks an idiot's face

Sam's been female for five straight days and no matter how much sex they've been having on every available surface, they're both going a little stir-crazy with no case to work for going on two weeks now and no leads to check out. Dean wants to pick a direction and set off until the sun sets, old-school style, but the price of gas is too high even for their fake credit cards to keep up with; the one thing he'll admit the Impala could be better on is gas mileage. 

Sam, on the other hand, doesn't want to sit still, doesn't seem as if she _can_ sit still for any considerable length of time. She's restless to use her body, to get fully adjusted to her body, figure out her speed and strength and limits. It surprises Dean a little, after they finish sparring one night, bandaging each other up, when Sam says, "Let's go get drunk." She must see the look on his face even though she's paying full attention to the slice on Dean's upper arm. She pauses, gives him a lopsided smile and says, "I should know where my lines are. Safer this way, since we're not on a case."

It makes sense, something Dean's never considered; no doubt her alcohol tolerance is different in this body and the hangover might be as well. "Can't believe I'm saying this," Dean mutters, in between licking his thumb and rubbing at a particular stubborn patch of mud on Sam's shoulder, "but I hope nothing comes up tomorrow."

"At least no case and no vomit," Sam says. When Dean looks at her, she's grinning, shrugs one shoulder in non-apology as she adds, "Best to be specific," and then looks down at Dean's crotch. 

Dean snorts, can't help it.

//

Sam's showing off a little too much skin for Dean's taste but he knows better than to tell her that; he'd tried the last time she'd been turned female and she'd practically bitten his head off. Still, it makes him cautious, hideously protective, because even though Sam's tall with lean muscles, and even though she knows how to fight and has a knife tucked in her boot, she's still so fucking unsteady in public. Probably no one other than Dean would ever see it but he does and that's enough to have him on edge when they walk into the bar and Sam tells Dean to grab them a table while she gets the drinks. 

He wants to argue but doesn't, not when he sees the mulish set to her jaw. Instead, he simply puts a hand on her waist and pulls her close, kisses her long and deep, lays claim to her in front of everyone in a way no one could mistake. 

"Neanderthal," Sam murmurs, nipping at Dean's earlobe before he pulls away. 

"And you love it," Dean replies, grinning at Sam, torn between looking at the delighted look in her eyes or at the kiss-bruised puffiness to her lips. 

Sam rolls her eyes but smiles back at Dean, soft and fond, the kind of smile Sam's a lot more generous with when she's female. 

//

Dean picks a small round table in the middle of the floor for its clear line of sight to the bar and the door, and pulls out a chair to perch on, tense and ready to move at a moment's notice. He keeps his peripheral awareness high but Dean's eyes are eagle-sharp on Sam as she leans against the bar, jeans clinging tight to her thighs and ass, midriff bare, the Jack Daniels t-shirt she stole from him hanging out of one back pocket. 

If he didn't know her so well, he'd think Sam's fine, just an average chick getting a drink or two to unwind after a long day. He does know her, though, knows every one of her tells, and he can see the fine trembling of her arms, sees the nervous way she strokes the bar with her thumb, back and forth, back and forth, uses her other hand to push a loose strand of hair behind her ear. 

"That your girl?"

The voice comes from behind Dean; Dean turns just enough to glimpse the guy out of the corner of one eye, the majority of his focus still on Sam. He looks like a typical frat-boy: trucker cap, baseball-style henley, idiotic expression on his face, too dumb to realise he's about to step into a whole heap of trouble. 

"Yeah," Dean says, eyeing the curve of Sam's ass as she hands over a few bucks in payment for the bottles and shot glasses in front of her. "She is." 

"She's hot," the guy says. "Are the tits as great as the ass?"

Now Dean's getting pissed off. He straightens up, turns to look at the idiot, says, very clearly, "I'd threaten you but my _woman_ over there? So much more dangerous than I am, man." It's not a lie, either; Dean's got the aim and the weight but Sam's found her centre of gravity faster than Dean had ever guessed she would. She's light on her feet and impossible to stop with a knife in her hands, deadly at close-range and not at all hesitant to prove it. He rubs at the stitches on his arm. No, Sam's definitely not hesitant to prove it.

The guy smirks, says, condescendingly, "Not man enough to defend your chick, huh. Or are you just too old and too scared?" 

"He's man enough to know that I can fight my own battles, shithead," Sam says, setting shots and beers on the table. The guy jumps like he didn't know Sam was coming and Dean bites back a laugh, has even more trouble keeping a straight face when she adds, "Now run on back to your limp-dicked friends and tell 'em you struck out." 

"Cute," the guy says, raises an eyebrow. "Real fucking cute, sweetheart." 

Sam puts one hand on Dean's shoulder when Dean makes a move to respond; he settles back down, watches as Sam throws back a shot without wincing, one smooth, clear swallow, and then, quick as anything Dean's ever seen before, she punches the guy square in the nose.

The guy hunches over, nearly drops to one knee as one hand goes up to his face. Dean's very familiar with the particular noise that a cheekbone makes when it shatters, knows from personal experience the sound of blood streaming out through broken cartilage, and he winces because the guy deserved it, sure, but _ow_. 

"Fucking _bitch_ ," the guy says, a whine of pain in the back of his throat. "What the fuck?"

"Only he's allowed to call me 'sweetheart,'" Sam says, tilting her head at Dean as she downs the second shot. "And, in my defence, you were being a real dick, so -- you kind of deserved it." 

Dean's warm inside -- not from the temperature of the bar, certainly not from any alcohol as he's still completely sober, but from seeing Sam like this. Watching her be so protective of her nickname, the one Dean gave her so very long ago, sets his blood to a nice, steady burn. 

"Warned you," Dean adds. 

Sam looks at Dean, fixes her gaze on him, and her eyes are dark, lust-hungry. "We should get out of here before the cops come," she says. She's biting her lower lip, earlier anxiety forgotten in the face of how she's feeling now. She's horny as fuck, Dean can tell, and he's not about to waste time by asking her what's gotten her so worked up so fast, not when seeing her like this makes him more than ready to go along with whatever she suggests. 

Dean stands, picks up one of the beers and chugs it, says, "Leave the other one, sweetheart." He nods at the idiot still hunched over and whining. "He can have it. And dude, seriously, it's still cold," he tells the guy. "Put it on your face on the way to the emergency room. It might help." 

//

They get out of the bar before anyone calls the cops, make it to the Impala with a minimal amount of touching, but once they're in the car they don't bother with seatbelts, don't waste that kind of time when the motel's only three minutes away. 

Sam presses up against Dean, her mouth leaving bites and bruises on his neck, one of his hands under her shirt, playing with her tits, her forehead heavy on Dean's shoulder as her hips jerk. "God, Dean," she's murmuring, "fuck, I'm so wet, need you in me, c'mon, _hurry_ , please, gotta get you in me." 

They had sex this morning before they even got out of bed, then went again in the shower, then indulged in an afternoon round outside, blood pumping as they sparred, violence turning sexual. Even after all of that, hearing Sam say that kind of shit? It still makes Dean drive a little faster. 

//

They don't make it to the bed. Sam's got her hands on the wall, her legs spread, and Dean's behind her, inside of her. He fucks into her hard, deep, bites her neck and leaves claim-bruises around her throat. She comes around him, head thrown back to Dean's shoulder, nails clawing at the paint, tits heaving, his name on her lips, and no matter which Sam he's fucking, Dean will never get tired of that, _never_.

//

"I think -- I think maybe I'll get the hang of this," Sam murmurs, once they're done and have collapsed onto the bed. She's running one hand up and down Dean's back, fingertips scratching feather-light over his skin, tracing every freckle, every bruise, every scar. "I mean, it's still kind of weird, I'm not gonna lie; having a cunt, right, and not having to worry about prep or lube or -- or what people think of us when they see us together? But I think I'll get the hang of it." 

Dean's breath hitches for a moment, because that sounds -- does she know? does she want this for good? is she telling him something or asking him something rather than just stating a fact? 

Before he can ask, Sam looks up at him, gives him a curiously-tilted smile, and says, "Y'know. If it ever happens again." 

"Right," Dean says, weakly. "If it ever happens again."


End file.
